


Query

by IzzyMarrie



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Taking place before Tim and Jay's team-up, The Operator - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IzzyMarrie/pseuds/IzzyMarrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man stands over another man's bed, watching as he sleeps.  The corvid shaking in his nest is a liar, and the watching man stares 'neath his mask with cautious eyes.  </p><p>"I made you my brother," he whispers.  </p><p>There is plenty he has wanted to say.  Aphasia hinders him in every way.  Will the man ever understand?  Has all truth left him?  </p><p>Briefly, the voyeur considers, "Do I help?  Or do I kill?" </p><p>All the while, the man 'neath the covers dreams, blissfully unaware, of his former friend questioning his very existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Query

#  **"Query"**

 

####  Written by: 

####  Sara Hervey (aka: IzzyMarrie, or 'The Major' )

 

####  **NOT**  to be used without MY permission

 

#####  **Disclaimers:   Jay, Tim, Alex, and Brian belong to the THAC crew  
****In fact, ALL of Marble Hornets belong to the THAC crew**

##### I'm just borrowing (because sharing is caring) : 3

  
**R &R.  Enjoy!**

 

* * * *

  
  
"You don't want to lose me . .   
But you are loath to refuse me . .  
And I know that you'll always choose me,  
over anybody else . . "  
\- Gotye

 

* * * *

  

            Somewhere in the distance, a place warm and friendly beckons.  A vagrant man, dirty and wearing a hoodie with tan fabric, watches with glazed eyes 'neath a thick cotton mask that hardly lets in enough light for him to see.  He isn't the 'eyes', so to speak, but he still sees all.  Nestled between green fields is a home mirrored in faint nostalgia and a still lake.  Darkness is encroaching from beyond the happy frame, and it's all the stranger can do but regard the slipping memory with an eerie calm.  

           "Your fault, _**your fault."**_   He turns.  Dwarfed in size by the surrounding evergreens, his adrenaline is pumping through his veins like a corned animal.  High pitch low pitch, **_not human._**  It's both a blur and an itch he can't quite scratch, making communications more in demonstration because it _can_ rather than it needed something to say.  The prickling sensation of his hair standing on end alerts him to the Operator's presence, and he coughs violently.  Pins and needles shoot throughout his body, and his head starts to pound as a coppery taste bursts from the back of his throat.   
  
            There's something wrong with the sky up ahead, as if it's flickering . .  
  
**_No!_**   He struggles. A growl rumbles from the back of his throat.  He shoots his hand outward, shaking the feeling of death and _dying_ as he pulls his hand back to his head.  He hisses in pain as he slowly straightens his back, and after a moment, he lets his hands fall back to his sides.  Just as quickly as the cold penetrates his bones, the feeling's gone and the metallic taste in his mouth starts to become less and less.    
  
            In that moment, he wonders, _Am_ I _becoming less and less?_  
  
            The man slips a gloved hand into his pocket, dismissing the thought as unnecessary and pulling out an unlabeled bottle of pills.  Just one, that's all he needs to fight for today.  It's a precaution.  It's survival.  He lifts his mask up over his lips so he can tentatively place the little pill onto his tongue.  Saliva gathers, but it's not as much as he would like as he forces the pill down his throat.  Dry swallowing is never something he likes to do, even as a child . .  medicine was never something he enjoyed, but these past few years, water isn't always on hand and these pills are a lifeline he's not willing to sever just because he hates the bitter aftertaste.  
  
            It doesn't take long for his jumbled nerves to settle, the medication in his system giving him peace of mind, if only for the moment.  Through the mask, the man stares past the lake, past the trees . .  Almost like a hologram with a corrupted light source, he's sucked inward so that he twitches and glitches beyond identification.  It's maddening, the happy reverie that awaits him.  He is but a third party, an on-looker from the future looking over the bubbly 10 year old him of the past.    
  
          _He doesn't belong here._  
  
                        It's sickening, the way the whole scene seems to swallow him whole.  The darkness encroaches, his mother's laugh lines, his father's goofy jokes . .  
  
            **The veil is too thick, shrouded in the knowledge he must remain distant.**  
  
                        But his heart beats fast, and he's tense.  His mother's kindness, the beaming pride of his father when he chose to go to _his_ college . .

          _**He shouldn't be here.**_  
  
                        But the man has half a mind to just rip off his mask in order to get a full view . .  It's sickening, the whole scene seeming to swallow him, flashing, non-sequential, too fast to drown in nostalgia . .     
  
          **He is a _coward._**  
  
            Before he knows it, his hand is already thumbing the lining of his mask, until he catches himself and stops.  It's not that he's a coward.  No, it's not about that at all.  He shouldn't _have_ to look back at things he no longer understands . .  The feelings it invokes are no longer valid.    
  
            No person is normal here.  No person is _right._  The whispering in his ear as the light engulfs him should be the only proof he needs.  
  
            But stubbornness over-takes reason, his hands uselessly falling to his side.   _"Are you safe?_ ** _Are you sure?"_  
**  
            The man does not react much to the voice, pointedly staring ahead.  The Operator is wanting to feed off his fear, but it will have none.  That is why his second face protects him in more ways than one as he becomes too preoccupied by traitorous thoughts.  A tear slides down his cheek as hands, soft and unlined innocently trace their small fingers against the frame of a family portrait.  Nothing but dreams now as his gloved hand leaves the overturned frame and he turns to face the path ahead and walks.  
  
            But something in him snaps.  Why should he leave?  This is but a dream, no?  He spins, eager for the photographs, the little mementos and trinkets collecting dust to suddenly―

            A loud bang shakes the delusion from focus, flickering, mocking, it must be silenced.   _Don't feel, **think.**_    
  
            The man now finds himself outside a window.  Back to _this_  reality.  It is not as if he actually dozed off while standing.  Yet, something about these last several weeks has caused him to lose focus.  
  
            For example, he's walked so much closer in the time the man he's secretly been filming for the past . . 40 minutes?  Hour?  However long it's been, it's no matter.  But what _does_ matter is that he doesn't even remember approaching the window.  Last time he checked, he was by the bushes.  
  
            He smiles, briefly lamenting over how amusing his unaware lackey really is.  Here he is, easily enveloping the space outside his 'oh so humble home', watching the source of that faceless devil sleep.  So vulnerable, so open . .  taking steady breaths in blissful ignorance as he lulls himself further into his sickening sea of dreams . .  He had blacked out for God knows how long, and the damned idiot is **_asleep._**  
  
            Time is ticking, a twinge of _something_ causes that organ so neglected by lack of proper nutrition to twist inside his chest again, but as the man watches, it is of no matter.   _Not true._  He knows there is work to be done, and there . . _tit for tat . .  the world bends, time of space, twisting until everyone within its confines succumbs to_ its _will._  
  
            A crack of thunder whips in time with the sudden light piercing the darkness around him.  Flashes of memory, a light envelopes, voices all around and he's frozen in fear . .  It only takes a moment for the man to realize his grip on his camera, the 'eye', the keeper of knowledge, has tightened, and with that, he reminds himself,  _no,_ _maɪnəs sɛntrɔɪd, remove, **extract . .**   _His mind, for a moment, lingers on that last phrase . .  and a light hurls dangerously close, another him in another time stood protectively in front of that liar . .  the damned source!  There's ringing and static and his mind's spinning and there's pain . .  
  
             _Pain._   Never mind the car that just drove past.  It was a car.  Just a car . .   _They will not interfere._  He still watches them drive away none-the-less.  Frame has lost focus, but now, it sets its sight on target.  Yes,  _pain . . **liar.**_  The shadow who seeks the light, has seen  _his_  lies in the dark.  Only knowledge will give him purpose, only hatred will give him direction, and if he has  _any_  complaints about what has to be done, what must traverse, his lips are sealed, mask upon his face permanently fixed into a frown and wide eyed circles never changing.    
  
            Logic seems no more a friend than fear as the intruder carefully goes to lift the glass barrier, coils unwinding while memories toss about in chaotic motions.  He slips into the other man's room with relative ease.  He is risking a lot by this visit.  It is his  _calling_  to lead . .  he is the catalyst to the end, after-all, and he has come to accept this.  But for this mission . .  the purpose . . _what is the purpose?_  
  
            Never the matter.  The man weighs the risks of closing the window, lingering on the thought of closing it blocking his escape.  He weighs the fear of the corvid bursting from his bed and threatening to strangle him against the realization that the cicada trees are dancing in the wind, their branchy fingers scratching against the house in a tip tap _tapping_ motion.  The sudden gust of wind sends rain from the outside howling in, and even though he is covered head to toe in cloth, a small sliver of his wrist is exposed from where his sleeve moved up and away from his gloved hand.  The harsh spray of cold hits him like needles, and begrudgingly, it's all the answer he needs as he carefully shuts the window and tugs down his sleeve.

            The fabric sticks close like a second skin from where the offending drops soaked into dirty cloth.  He couldn't risk the noise of shutting it too fast, but the annoying reality of this _also_ being a bad idea is as conspicuous as a giant in the middle of a field wearing a suit and having no face.  His life has become funny like that.  The downpour was to be expected, so perhaps it is better this way.  At least he is less likely to catch a cold, but now he has to worry about smelling like wet dog and risk alerting his obviously 'vigilant' cast-away.  It's actually something he should worry about.   _He is, after-all, more vigilant than the thief._ There is something  _off_ about the beating of his heart . .  that organ . .  like war drums, too anti-climatic, must not alert the damn corvid shaking in his nest of his arrival.  He watches with careful eyes as he shuffles across the room.   
  
            Again, why is he doing this?  Does it go against the rules?  He always goes against those anyway.  His skin begin to itch, but he stands still, obviously feeling no shame as he stands over his old friend's bed.  There's spite in that word, _**friend.**  _ He's had plenty of those in his old life, but it's funny how after a hit to the head by a metal pipe and a misplacement courtesy of a certain _broken_ one's new master rolls into three years of failed jobs and failed diagnoses, failed friendships, falling ego, and many more years of hate directed at that vice, **_Alex,_**  and now this two-faced liar who _knew_ he was the source all along, _**Tim.**_  
  
            Rewind several years, the intruder remembers just how fast both his mental and physical health plummeted.  Life, if you could even call it that, became a struggle, knowledge at the time was unfocused, blurry at best with the toss-up between kill or let the others suffer with him.  There was a stir of the pot, a trigger that re-awoke the ghostly presence of the evil entity, a thief of knowledge that time and time again, him and the liar would try to steer on the right path: Jay, their blue Jay . .  First the 'eyes' would alert him to the imminent reawakening of the faceless giant, then the 'eyes' would tell him that assimilation is key.  The 'EYES' would sometimes say nothing, and he would have to wait for the answers to come.  
  
            The blue bird would upload footage, reminders of the Operator and its influence, for the world to see.  He had gone _years_ with the cold chill ever-present, but it wasn't until the thief had gone and made their lives a show that his sickness grew.  The abomination of nature made its presence known in the worse ways possible, and to make matters worse, Alex, the damn broken bastard who he can't even manage to kill despite his best efforts, was watching . .  and yet, despite being the faceless one's favorite, remained untouched.  
  
            Thus began a game where he too would upload footage, coded messages that the blue bird would have to decipher to prove his worth.  He was helping to the best of his ability, but he would often find himself letting go . .  allowing the giant to work its magic on his brain in relapse.  It began with a simple 'Regards', and an attempt to draw in the bird for the draft.  This was their fight, and if a single man, feeble in every possible way could go three years blissfully ignorant to the suffering and mental conditionings, then it must be _this_ man who would lead them to their salvation:  the ark.  
  
            But over time, it would prove a fruitless effort, and before long, the bird would search for answers of his own without a worry of who might be watching.  He would publicly announce his every move, holding out on the hope that he was somehow helping someone, playing out his cards and seeking out the quiet shadow's neighbor Tim, the old friend the shadow had grown distant to and purposely avoided.  "Flee, now," the video said, a binary clock ticking backwards over old footage of himself back when he was 'Brian the actor', not 'Brian the homeless vagrant'.  Jay received a tip of where he lived, but weeks would pass before he came.  Brian was almost shot.  Alex almost _shot_ him thinking Jay was getting too close to the truth and would talk to him next.    
  
            Tim was unaware of Alex's two day trip from his home town, in fact, he was putting the whole incident of what Alex did to them behind him, even holding steady work.  The sickness would follow him too, however, Jay's failure to follow up with him after his secret interview stirring up strange feelings he couldn't shake.    
  
            Brian was pissed at first, but maybe it was for the best Tim finding out this way, even if it was a simple google search that brought him back into the fold and brought back memories long forgotten, even if he kept him, his _friend_ that was right _there_ out of the loop, it was their mutual hatred of Alex and his Operator that had bonded them.  Tim must have thought keeping quiet and doing nothing would keep them both from falling back into their loop of unhappiness.    
  
            But what Brian couldn't forgive was Tim's dishonesty where it mattered most.  Did he think after everything that he would _hate_ him?  Over a year running around in the woods wearing their new identities and defying their eldritch stalker and plotting murder against the man who was once his BEST friend . . just for it to come down to a search through his neighbor's home . . Brian remembers the moment he first saw Tim's medical records, recognizing what the symptoms meant, staring down and realizing he was a _liar_ and it was **_him_** who broughtit here all along . .  
  
            Laughter erupts through the ringing that rattles inside his brain, and he shuts his eyes.  The scene changes.  He's inside a college dorm now; third person view, he knows the blonde headed man crumpled to the floor in laughter is him, _was_ him . .  at one time.  The man wearing glasses and trying his best to hold him down with a disdainful glare is Alex, the butcher.  Try as he might, the serious look on his face was anything but scary.  In fact, the only thing scary to him in that moment was how anyone could think plaid and stripes could possibly look good together.  Alex had pressed his glasses further up his nose, red eyes struggling to make out the exact position of the coffee table as he doubled over to stub out the blunt in his hand, and the glorified mess on the floor had sworn in that moment that his friend had a rainbow halo pulsating from out his face, and it was _hilarious._  
     
           Both men had smoked too much pot, and another bad joke by the 'pretty face', as Alex had put it, finally struck a nerve.  "How on earth is it you haven't floated away with all that air in your head?"  Alex was and still is pride; back then though, his only mission was to 'share his talent throughout the world by force feeding the mainstream with substance'.  He was just a _friend_ he met in film class, both serving to knock the other down a peg and give each-other support.  Alex wanted to be a famous director.  The oblivious man teasing the one-day future psychopath, forces a smile on said psychopath's face as 'Brian the voyeur' watches in silence.  "Brian is as Brian does, and lives as the greatest mystery known to man . .  so don't worry your pretty little head over it."    
  
            Tim twitches in his sleep, groaning, and Brian closes his eyes, remembering how he waved his hand in a dramatic flair of flamboyance certainly too girly for a man as himself, and how it forced Alex to retort, "Excuse me?  Little?  I just think it looks small compared to your large vagina."  Brian choked on the beer he was drinking, laughing hard.  "Got dick on the mind Alex?  Does Amy know about this?"  Back then, Brian had planned for psychology to be his major, and film to be his minor.  His real dream, however, was to act.  
  
            _Am I acting now?_  A flutter of questions start to rattle around, shaken but not stirred, buzz buzz _buzzing_ around like an insistent pest that does not seem to know when to quit.  The man before him tosses and turns; the blankets have been kicked off of him for some time.  A quiet man is walking down the hall, and he's almost like a lost puppy, funny because he was looking for the music class despite the fact there's a room right there with instruments in plain sight.  Greasy hair, loud shirt with vibrant colors contrasting the obviously awkward sense of 'do I even belong here?' that he seemed to carry, and Brian being Brian striding up with an air of confidence befitting that of someone much more nauseating than the current him dares to remember . .  
  
           Each rise and fall of Tim's chest, why should he have to suffer alone?  All the laughs, careless and free, the days spent scribbling nonsense on his dirty floor that he never bothered cleaning even before Alex tried shooting him, all the brotherly bonding and support he gave to his new friend, encouraging him to better himself and become something, back to the home he once had and Tim sleeping on a blanket in his closet because the mattress is still overturned and he was busy curled up on the couch . . and now _this._   _Thisis_   _ **theark,**_ no choice, _no choice_ . .  The rule of threes, a quadrant of woe, a command given without options and WITHOUT CHOICE.  The ark awaits them and it will end, because it MUST end, he'll make sure of it because he _has_ to lead, he HAS to make sure that this ends, _RIGHT!?_    
  
           "This still doesn't . .  feel right."  Brian remembers how Tim would sometimes argue.  Tim would come to understand that Brian knew what was best, whether he liked it or not.  "It's like we're giving him a puzzle but with-holding a piece.  How is he even supposed to―"

            Brian chuckled, knowing what they were doing was important and finding Tim's naivety almost endearing. _Although . ._   he had to stop himself from thinking that question.  He knew _why._ "You know it's the only way, the end of the journey's in sight . ."  Brian half-singed the last part, quoting lyrics from one of the many songs he called his 'favorite.'  
  
            "Brian, listen, there's no way he can―"

            "We've traveled so far and now the stars are aligned.  Say goodbye . . "  
  
            Long ago, Brian was taught how to listen to the thunder, it called for him to be His child even though he begged for the wind to bring him back to the earth, the whispers said he should stay.  Fear knows no compassion.  Tim stared forward, realizing by now that there's no arguing with someone who won't listen.  "All the things you thought you came here for, everything you thought you knew for sure, no meandering, no more wondering everything is true."  
  
            Tim shrank into himself slightly as the smiling man swayed to and fro and suddenly slipped on his mask.  "Should . .  I be surprised that you remembered this?"  
  
            Brian continued to sing, his voice light yet dark as he moved closer towards his makeshift brother.  "All the things you thought you had to say, everyone you left along the way, so you gather how, nothing matters now that your time is through."  
  
            Tim smiled, but the smile quickly faded as his eyes hardened.  "It was three years ago.  There's no way he could―"

            "Say goodbye . . "  
  
            "No seriously, Brian―"

            "Don't you fight . . "  
  
            Tim couldn't resist, grinning despite himself.  "I don't want to, I don't want to . . "  
  
            Brian spun on his heel, his voice growing louder as he sang, "Leaving your life's no easy ride . . "  The upbeat tune, it was masking the desperation, the cold truth behind what the lyrics meant to the both of them.  Brian saw how Tim grew quiet, his smile no longer present and his muscles stiff.  He sighed, sitting next to him and clasping a reassuring hand onto the other man's shoulder.  "The disease . .  it's thick, slimy.  I know."  
  
            Tim started to shake.  Before the tears could stream down his cheek, he was already throwing on his own mask, desperate to become the show runner again instead of the poor, pathetic man he's become.  Brian allowed Tim to stay quiet.  He knew he would speak when he was ready.  Then, barely above a whisper, Tim spoke, "I'm beginning to think . .  I didn't have much of a life to begin with."  
  
            Brian clenches his fist; his head is hurting again.  Tim starts to cough, and he quickly backs towards the window just in case . .  but nothing.  It's nothing.  The crow's just dreaming.  Tim's eyebrows are drawn in and he sucks in another sharp breath of air.  "Stop, no . . " he mumbles.    
  
            Slowly, Brian walks back to the bed, thinking back to the conversation they had in the run down shack in Rosswood, back when the 'eyes' told him that Alex was planning on burning Jay alive.  They had made a video, filmed it for Jay who had since holed himself up in his tiny apartment.  "Not amused . .  He wasn't . .  listening."  The 'eyes' spoke callously.  Sloppy handwriting gave his 'regards' upon the piece of paper that became the last frame of their warning.  "Regards my little Jay bird for when he shows up at your house while you're home alone.  Hope you have fun."  
  
            "He's going to die," Brian spoke quietly, seeming to doze off, but honestly bored now that he wasn't in charge of editing.    
  
            "That's not going to happen," Tim spoke quickly.  "We need him."  
  
            "A half dead bird crawling into the vulture's nest lacks permanence."  
      
            "We're just sitting here, Brian, and we know Alex could be on his way!"  
  
            Something in Brian snapped and before he could stop himself, he was slamming Tim into the wall and gripping him by the throat.  "He's the exit Tim!  And I'd rather help him drown then let him wait for the blaze!  Remember who brought you to that hospital.  Remember who tried to kill both you AND me.  Jay will help us kill him, whether he wants to or not!"    
  
            Tim shoved Brian off of him, stomping towards him as Brian suddenly backed away.  "Oh yeah?  Then why don't I just drag his ass out of there right now if he's such a big commodity?  I don't get it.  Why are we just scaring him if we need to use him anyway?  Since when are people―"

            Lunging at him again, Brian forced Tim to the ground and then punched his face.  "Since WHENare we people anymore?  It's no time for pretend, Timothy.  The disease spreads.  I will stop it.  I WILL stop it."  Tim struggled against Brian for a moment, growling like a feral animal until finally he grew still, his eyes rolling off to the side in acceptance.    
  
            Brian got up off of Tim, slow, deliberate.  Tim was shaking, taking ragged breaths as he wiped the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand.  "Brian.  Where will he go?  What about all those other people living there?"  
  
            Brian never bothered to turn and face him.  "You _know_ what must happen."  
  
            There's a tightness in his chest, and it constricts, threatening to squeeze so hard that his heart might burst and his soul slip from its confines within its bony cage.  It's sick, he's sick, and no, they're ALL becoming sick with this distorted sense of beckoning to do strange things beyond comprehension and the only cure is _remove **, damnit!**_  Human nature is a damned thing, but aphasia mixed with a longing for apathy make every moment, every lasting memory that managed to survive, so very . .  painful.    
  
            It is then, Brian thinks, oh how many ways this footage can be put to use.  He thinks back to Jay, the silly bird with weak limbs and a not so sharp mindset, and already his lips creep into a half-cocked grin as he plays with the case of the tape holding evidence of something Tim does not remember . .  There are _so many ways_ he can force his pawn and former partner back into action.  He _hates_ the man in his sights . .  It is a gift really, Brian offering his favorite tool against the Operator.  Brian feels very generous.  Jay will finally have a friend.    
  
            _Friend . ._  Seven years, the very beginning stages of watching the nervous little bird, but there was something different then . .  
  
           Brian needed to know,  The 'eyes' were certain that Alex was up to something, and it scared Brian, but it was important and he needed to know.  Watch for answers, it will be known, and then it dawned on him.  Jay had ran off to get Alex the spare battery for his camera.  Location scouting, in such a place?  The curious symbol was ascribed with chalk onto the concrete, and there was a decision he had to make watching the happy-go-lucky kid too eager to please and too earnest and naive to know . .    
  
           From the bushes, Brian ran, and of course Jay would buy any lie he told him about the camera.  Alex was busy, and the 'eyes' saw how he sought out of his own volition . .  but no, that thing's a demon, and there must be a reason.  Perhaps that's why he smiled the next time he saw Alex, and perhaps that's why he believed him when he shivered and coughed.  "Alex, you really need to call the police," Brian had said, reassuring him with a careful hand to his shoulder.  He shrugged it off, saying nothing of the tall man nor the symbol, opting instead to bury his dead dog Rocky who was mysteriously plopped on his front porch as a welcome home present earlier that afternoon.  Brian had quietly excused himself, a ringing in his ears and massive headache starting to work its way through his temple.  He was feeling sick, but Alex had enough to worry about.  
  
           The world's changed, but it still moves forward.  Though his mind is in tangles, there is an underline purpose that gives Brian honor in this dishonorable circumstance.  He is an army of one, and the knowledge that the SSS has failed to reel in the dumb bird gone AWOL and the silly growth he sliced from his own skin that has long since been smoked by the spook who is laughing behind the curtains as the show unfolds . .  no, he is ALONE!  Alone, alone, alone . . _it hurts . ._  Digitalize, store it away for further distortion and abuse . .  but masked in the code . .  his heart still continues to conflict with the anger.  
  
           For what reason, is anyone's guess, but vague hints of what used to be human are still crying to be set free.  The answers to this life lead to one outcome and one outcome only: the ark, and the diction is given as an argument without options and there is only peace when the binary is read once and for all.    
  
            Tim's fast paced breathing is starting to fall in time with the ever-quickening pace of the rain outside, with the pounding headache pulsing through Brian's brain, and he can't help but hate himself with the sense of his purpose slipping!  Brian _knows_ the questions are just as important as the answers he seeks!  But he cannot for the life of him _know_ what he is supposed to ask!  Not to mention, words serve to betray the very meaning they are meant to convey and they seem to be tied up whenever he attempts a simple phrase upon his tongue, and though he can see the words just fine as they are typed upon the screen, they are scrambled nonsense apparently to whomever view his failed communications online.  
  
           Why does he even bother?  The simple answer is necessity.  Force others to draw out the inevitable truth, and with or without them, he will walk free. _That is a lie._  
  
           The liar whose lies blind him from the truth . .  the prideful and broken soul who led them to the slaughter . .  the 'eyes' and the one who had to be in control . .  bodies bent at unnatural angles and collected by the giant, the boiler room with unholy faces and the watchful eye, blood coating everything even if it seemed clean, you only had to turn on the light, and then the world beyond the portal displayed those corpses that never seemed to rot―    
  
           And he's about to be sick, and that's when Brian remembers where he is, and he has to. Calm. The. Fuck. _Down._  There's no room for any more of this nonsense plaguing his mind. _Remove center mass, **expel.**_  
  
            _Focus._  Holding out the 'eye', the voyeur bitterly watches, noting how sweat clings to his fallen brother's skin and slides down with the arrival of another thunder clap.  The sleeping man mewls in his sleep, curled into himself, trembling as what must be terrible memories pull him under.  Tim's fist shoots up, an unconscious act of muffling his cries, and before long, he's chewing on his knuckles.  
  
           Pity, _is it pity?,_ betrays the masked man's facade of cruelty, if only for a moment.  He goes to place his hand on his shoulder, but pulls back in respite.   _What am I doing?_  He stands there, silently pondering his next move.  Is there one?  In the now, not the then.  Is there any reason to be in this room at all?  The footage he needs . .  all he needed . .  was captured before the liar fell asleep.  It's . .   _is it not enough?_  He thinks for a moment.  He's waiting on that damn bird brained moron to get up and stop tripping over his damned feet; he has something important.  That is why it was important to digitalize this moment, but this encounter?  Why doesn't Jay understand when he's making it so damn clear?  And Tim, _TIM ._ _._  the two-faced monster masquerading as a human being, but he'll end up having to act and damn it if Jay forces him to teach Tim a lesson that he should already know.  
  
           Brian watches dispassionately, no intention of acting any further.  Although, the way Tim's fringes stick to his forehead and get in the way of his eyes seem to set off the hooded man in ways much more paternal than he would dare admit right now, and before he can stop himself, gloved fingers are brushing away the stray locks of hair.  It annoys him, less fraternal, and almost motherly . .   _It would be so easy to kill you right now . ._  He backs away.  "I made you my brother . ." he whispers.  Tim is still blissfully unaware of the potential danger his is in right now, at the mercy of someone he has wronged.  That is part of the reason Brian feels entitled to watch, the other is the free license invited upon their lives through the open spectacle on display for anyone and everyone who come across the marble hornets channel to see.  It started with Jay's stupidity, not understanding how his actions in uploading those cursed tapes could stir a change.  It then followed with confusion with how one man could go blissfully unaware of what Alex had done for 3 years.  It wasn't long before the quadrant was filled, and the show was dragged on far past its deserved run time.  
  
           Crashing down on him like waves of unwanted sea water threatening to pull him into the damn riptides and hold him under, a happy family is gathered around a bonfire . .   _fire_ . . and suddenly, the scene changes, old college friends and an acting career never to take flight, stupid exchanges, pretentious lines uttered in good humor as the fire light casts a warm glow over―  
  
_No!  Null . .  is this not what you want too?  Please  . .  the broken one, he was the one marked by stigmata, and he led us to the slaughter . .  but you **lied** to me, the entire time, and you knew.  Penance is paid in blood for all of us.  Rest so, you cannot be trusted but shall remain permeant. In due time, you will understand, but you will_ take _this punishment.  You and the thief will work together, and when the time comes, I will_ tear _you apart.  You_ need _me . . ._  
  
           Stumbling back, Brian holds his head in his hand.  How long ago was it?  Trapped in the darkness after that night . .  how long did it last―has it lasted?  It seemed like years, removed from one reality and tossed about in frightening insecurity and horrible dimensions blind to this world's concept of space and time, but at least he wasn't alone.  A two man team fused by force of nature, _human_ nature, created a bond so sick, so sad, so _desperate,_ making them almost whole.  The three years before the cycle repeated, it was the paranoia, the constant feeling of dread, but the storm affects its victims in several ways, _not the same . ._  Brian fell away from the once reserved loner who had up until that point been like a brother he felt the urge to protect.  Bursting through the doors down the hall in a dare, hanging out at a party he convinced Tim would be good for him to join, that one time convincing the shy, nervous Jay who seemed more content in following Alex around that the tree octopus was actually a real thing and this is why―

  
            A different time, a different place, two men sat together at an Applebee's getting ready to order dinner.  It's funny really, but what could he do.  He sure as hell wasn't letting Tim sulk at home again, and although he still couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with his new friend, he had a nasty habit of finding just the right smile until tricking the information out of just about anyone, and Tim was no exception.  He was invasive, but in a good way, or so he was told once upon a time, and he would've befriended the entire campus if he could.  Alex had refused to join them, saying he had tapes to go through from his big day trying to find his perfect cast for his new film.  Of course he'd suspected that him and Tim were the only ones to have shown up, but he would never have said as much, just smiling and paying compliments to silly dialogue and characters that . .  well, Alex had a delicate ego, but a good heart.  
  
_**You are broken . .**_  
  
           Searing pain shot throughout his body, especially his head, and this much he remembered, but as for why . . he couldn't place it until years later when he acquainted the bright light and dank coughs and the buzzing, prickling sensation as his hair stood on end with the slender giant, the Operator.  A camera sat unmanned and he grabbed it.  Concern steadily worked its way through his jumbled nerves as he searched the abandoned hospital for Alex.  They were shooting a scene, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground alone.  "Alex?" he called out.  He heard coughing, and there, wrapped in a dirty blanket and hacking his lungs out was Tim, and Brian yelled his name while running over to him.  "Come on, Alex?"  A cold chill spilled into the room, and he turned, and that's when the faceless Operator tilted its head, and he felt his flesh dissipating, his brain pounding, and both men were gone, evaporating through time and space.  
  
      _ **You cannot be fixed . .**_  
  
            Flashes of Jay remind him of how he's starting to become Alex.  Part of the enigma, perhaps, part of the twisted logic of needing to watch and record in case of emergency.  Part of the sickness, the knowledge of the eldritch stalker who has made all of who have had the misfortune of making its acquaintance _gone . ._  But Jay never left them to be taken by a faceless monster.  Jay seemed to have a strange mixture of self-pity and love that misguided every attempt for his own eyes to see the truth.  Tim and Brian guided him through cryptic videos he so often ignored or misinterpreted, and Brian would have to sometimes send Tim to physically stir things into motion.  From a prospective brother, to bait, they were _not_ on equal ground with him.  He would understand the terror, with or without their guidance, being as the universe deemed it fair since he was so late to the party.    
  
           Alex and Brian weren't expecting anything clever from Jay, underestimating the quiet and shy man who often stared at his shoe laces and laughed at cat videos for hours on end.  All in good humor, all in good fun, never confronting the two who'd managed to convince him after 30 minutes that tree octopuses were real and were in danger of extinction, managed to pull the most brazen of pranks both men have ever seen.  The man is not an idiot, but a quiet genius, and "What a vindictive bitch!" Brian had thought, laughing despite himself.  To say both men were shocked would be an understatement, and the fact they went a full day falling for the cleverly orchestrated tricks of lighting and people in on the prank dressed in costume and bored college students pretending like it is all in their heads just gives credence to phrase 'it's always the quiet ones.'  Seriously.  It took just two hours of catching orange tentacles from the trees and them being gone the moment they tried to get someone else to look for them to think the world was against them and that they were going to have to catch it in order for anyone to believe it's real.  
     
           The most amazing prank Brian had ever seen.  Maybe that's part of the reason he becomes so frustrated with how he drags his feet and refuses to acknowledge all his warnings online.  There's much more brain power 'neath that brown cap of his, and that same burst of pride and competitive spirit that rushed through him that 7 years ago has turned to venom.  Jay can solve a rubix cube in under 10 minutes.  So how in the hell does he make every 80's slasher look like a great survival guide in comparison?  He'd be _dead_  if it weren't for him!  Does he even _care?_ He's blind, in Brian's eyes, and it's his job to help him see.  Perhaps if Tim weren't so blind right now, it would be easier, but the moment they kidnapped that girl to try and save her, the MOMENT Jay gathered up the paper with the combination for the safe that Brian knew _only_ because he had watched them after Tim struggled to keep Alex from shooting the two _. .  It was a failure._  Brian continues playing with the tape in his pocket.  He keeps it separate from another tape, one much more personal.  When the time comes, Tim will get that one as well . . 

            Cautious not to wake him, Brian kneels down and observes the other man at eye level.  "Have you made me a liar too?"  
  
            The crow awakes, much to Brian's surprise, and he quickly, quietly moves down . .  sitting with his camera in his lap and staring forward, hoping that he wasn't noticed.  Tim is silent save for the frantic breathing doing a number on his already damaged lungs.  He throws his feet over the opposite side of the bed, unaware of his hooded stalker right under his nose . .  and then he pauses, just for a moment.  He sucks in a sharp breath of air and lets it out with a sigh.  The sound of things being moved around is heard just before the first foot step creaks along the floor and the sound of the bedroom door closing allows an easy breath to escape the man who didn't realize he was even holding it.

            He does not understand, he thought he did.  The answers are ones he has watched for, but more questions than answers are always pervading his sanctity.  Obsession, he needs to know.  Who are the real liars here, and is it him that hinders himself in every way?  The more that Brian questions himself, the more of an empty shell he becomes.

            A few years back, a two man team fused by force of nature,  _human_ nature, created a bond so sick, so sad, so  _desperate,_ making them almost whole.  The masks they donned would hide the fear, the anxiety, the sorrow, and while one would dive headfirst into the water, the other would make sure to tell his brother how to swim and never let him drown, that is, until the day he realized that everyone lies.  Human, therefore no trust shall be given, and in light of this revelation, a prophet of sorts quietly reserves his sense of growing agony in favor of pulling the strings of this cacophony so that at least one shall prevail. 

             Mercy, it's honestly one of the few things left of the old Brian that's survived.  But then . .  is it?  Is it even mercy, them pushing forward like this?  Is this madness?    
  
            _Who are we?_  
  
            Food, he really used to put so much importance on his health.  It's almost funny now how little of a fuck he could care, as long as he eats at all.  Pills and water bottles have taken priority.  Making another video, Brian never bothered bringing Tim back into the fold after realizing the truth behind him.  He was still crying 'neath his mask despite the vindictive messages, and at another time, he even gave him a session that he could only hope he'd one day see.  He was close by, as always, he would understand one day that time doesn't move as it should in certain blocks, that these flickering images passing by as reality was cruel―IS cruel and that the telltale rumble from their throats when they cough up blood is only going to end when they―  
  
Standing there, not the first time, not the last, he stood and watched Tim sleep, remembering how Alex had smashed his leg with a block of concrete and how for a short time it caused him to tell Tim wordlessly through the unexpected meal cooked in kindness, and not to mention the arrogant way of _reminding_ him how great of a cook he actually is, the less heavy work load for that first week, and even through a joke or two when the other man gripped him by the throat in anger, dismissing the violence with an infuriating grin and quip that made Tim stumble back in shock until realizing he's allowed to cry and laugh at the same time . .  he cares.  The bodies piled like pancakes and wearing faces of friends and strangers alike as they barreled through the horror and yanked each other through the inhuman screams that ripped from their mouths late at night . .  C _ared._   Not twins, not anymore, never by blood, but by the cruel fates that forced them together 'til their bones crunched.  He was _forced_ to do this.   _Truth . ._  
  
            If the heavens are cruel enough to allow an eldritch stalker ruin his sanctuary, a storm of hell fire bringing forth the deluge of impurities, then _he_ will be the one to bend the world back into place, ending this once and for all, removing center mass, no matter the cost, and becoming the catalyst to the end.  It's too late to say he's sorry.  Because he's not.  He now has all the answers he needs.  "You'll understand . .  right?"  Without looking, without pause, he quickly forces open the window and runs . .  failing to see the stunned horror on Tim's face, failing to hear the slews of curses and violent threats.  Brian fails to see the confused tears and the shaking man slamming him out once and for all.  And Tim fails to see that the obviously disturbed man, is still looking out for him after all.

**Author's Note:**

> For those unfamiliar with Marble Hornets, this is a web series that I personally enjoy for its vague, slow building nature that forces you to think and question everything from what is shown on the tapes, and what is not, how the characters act, and the detoriating mindsets of the characters. 
> 
> "Query" is a character study of the masked man wearing the hoody who was a part of the youtube channel totheark and who also stalked many of the characters throughout the series.
> 
> For those curious, the two songs referenced in this fanfic are:
> 
> Gotye - Loath to Refuse (opening quote)
> 
> and
> 
> Gotye - The Only Way (the song Brian was singing)


End file.
